


Great Minds Think Alike

by Kefalion



Series: All About Harry [10]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF Harry, Gen, Smart Harry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2017-12-21 13:57:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/901092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kefalion/pseuds/Kefalion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a new tenant in the appartment abouve Sherlock and John's. The young man shows with one converation and a scribbeled note that he can keep up with the world's only Consultant Detective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John woke up to the sound of running in the stairs and a lot of thumping from the floor above. "What the..?" he mumbled incoherently, rubbing at his eyes. The noise continued and reluctantly he pulled the covers aside and got out of bed.

He entered the living room where unsurprisingly Sherlock was sitting on the sofa with his legs tucked under his body, dressed as he had come to expect, in pyjamas and robe.

"Do you know what's going on?" he asked, suppressing a yawn.

"New neighbour's moving in," Sherlock answered, followed by a particularly loud thump.

"This early?"

"Obviously."

"And upstairs?"

"Yes, John. You are remarkably observant today. Now hush I am trying to think."

"About what? And how would me keeping quiet help any with all this ruckus going on?"

"We will not know unless you try."

"Fine. I'm going to find out what's going on."

John ventured out into the hallway, knowing that it was likely that Sherlock would follow him; the man wouldn't possibly be able to keep himself from finding out more about the person moving into their building.

"Oh. Good morning, John dear." Mrs. Hudson was standing on the flight outside 221B looking up the stairs, keeping her hand at her chest.

"Good morning," he answered. "Someone's moving in?"

"Yes, yes. The top floor. 221D."

"I didn't know there was a fourth apartment in this building."

"No, well, I've been renting it out for years, but the young man who lived here up and disappeared one day about twenty years ago, the rent never stopped coming though so I couldn't very well let someone else move in, now could I?"

"And now a young relative have chosen to take up the contract," Sherlock said, having come out into the stairwell as expected.

"Oh, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson berated. "Do not startle me like that! I do not know how much my heart can take."

"He's just left school and wanted his own place to live," Sherlock continued as if Mrs. Hudson never said anything. "An uncle or perhaps godfather was your precious tenant before and when the young man discovered that this apartment existed he decided to move in."

Just then a man came down the stairs; he stopped in his tracks when he caught sight of them, looking for a fraction of a moment like a dear caught in the headlights, before he relaxed.

"Oh, hello," he said, smiling faintly. He was, as Sherlock had already told them, a young man, perhaps a bit over twenty years of age. He had dark hair that was longer atop his head and shorter on the sides; it fell over his forehead down to the frames of square rimmed glasses. He was wearing a cardigan that John had trouble deciding whether it was designer or homemade, pale blue jeans and finally a pair of rather ratty trainers on his feet.

John though he looked to be a nice enough fellow, and he was sure that if Sherlock opened his mouth he'd get the man's entire life story, so he made sure to open his mouth first.

"Hello," he answered, making sure to smile. "I'm John Watson and this here is Sherlock Holmes, we share the flat on this floor."

The man continued down the stairs and presented a hand, which John grabbed and shook. "I'm Harry Potter, pleased to meet you." Mr. Potter shook hands with Sherlock as well. That the Consultant Detective was agreeable to it surprised John a bit, but then he figured that Sherlock was probably gathering data.

"I apologize if I woke you up, I needed to vacate my previous home today and I'll not have the time to move my things later. Sorry for bothering you Mrs. Hudson."

"Oh," John said. "That's okay. It's no trouble." He did wish he'd gotten to sleep a bit longer, but neither did he want to make the man feel ill at ease and it wasn't as if Mr. Potter had tried to kill them or anything. He was just a young man trying to make the best of what was probably a tricky situation.

"Yes, yes, quite alright Harry dear," gushed Mrs. Hudson. "Too bad about Mr. Black. Ugly story that."

"Yes." Harry's eyes grew dark, drawing John's attention to them, they were really green, an unusual colour.

"Sirius Black," Sherlock muttered, grabbing their attention. "A man thought to be a mass murderer, convicted for setting off a bomb in a street, killing thirteen people and injuring many more. Escaped twelve years later. Was on the run for three years before any evidence of his existence vanished and not least; he was your godfather."

John prepared himself for the worst. This wasn't going to be good, he could tell.

"Yes. He was innocent though," Mr. Potter said, not a hint of irritation in his tone, making John blink, his muscles still tense in preparation of confrontation.

"Really?"

"Really. Any cases at the moment?" Mr. Potter asked, changing the subject. His tone was innocent, but Sherlock must have read something more into it judging by his next inquiry.

"Police work, Potter?"

The man didn't even blink before he answered. "Special Forces."

"Of course, led there by personal experiences."

"Yes. And as with you I would find myself bored with a regular desk job."

"You know of us?" John felt obliged to ask.

Mr. Potter's lips twitched. "Naturally," he answered. "You need to keep an eye on the competition even if you don't move on the same field."

"National reach," Sherlock said surely.

"International," Mr. Potter countered.

"Newly examined."

"Yes and no."

"Having worked in the field, but only recently getting the credentials of education."

"Closer."

John followed the conversation as best he could, some dread building. They didn't need another Sherlock in the building. And the only other man he knew who's brain functioned at all like his flatmate's was a murdering maniac, it didn't bode well for them if Mr. Potter was anything like that. There was Sherlock's brother too, not that he was any better.

Sherlock stared their new neighbour down. "You know Mycroft," he claimed accusingly, apparently having been thinking something similar to John.

"I have met him on occasion," Mr. Potter said.

"Did he put you up to this?"

"No. Though when he did find out I was taking up residence here, he tracked me down and…"

"Offered you money to spy on Sherlock," John concluded.

"Not, money, but he did try to bribe me with other means."

"Not money, John," Sherlock scolded at the same time. "Potter is not in need of monetary gain. You should have been able to put that together just by knowing that his godfather, who's been the tenant of the apartment for two decades, though not living there has been paying for it, and as he has disappeared, likely deceased," Mr. Potter nodded, "Potter has inherited and for Black to have been his godfather he must have been friends with his parents. People with money befriend people with money. Mr. and Mrs. Potter were wealthy and they too are dead, leading to more inheritance. Potter here also works in Special Forces, a profession with high risk work and compensation to reflect that, meaning that Potter has no need for my brother's money."

"So what did he offer?" John asked.

"Shall you, or shall I?" Mr. Potter asked.

"Mycroft offered information," Sherlock said, answering both inquires at once.

"About what?"

"Interesting cases, naturally."

"Naturally. How can you possibly know this? No never mind! I didn't ask that!"

"It's easy to conclude. Did you not listen? I have already told you that Mr. Potter has no need for money."

"Yes, I am with you so far," John said exasperated, watching their new neighbour smirk, that was more like Moriarty than Sherlock, not good, but it was also more human than Sherlock which on the other hand could count as good.

"He has also said himself that he works in Special Forces."

"Yes, I recall."

"And that he would get bored with a desk job and that he knew about us because he wished to keep up with the competition."

"That's it?"

"Do you need more?"

"I think I'll go back to mine, boys, do try not to have a falling out," Mrs. Hudson announced and scurried down the stairs to her apartment before any of them could give an answer.

"Hmm. Well, I should get back to putting in the last of my stuff. I need to get to work soon."

"Yes, of course," John nodded.

"France?" Sherlock asked.

"Switzerland," Mr. Potter retorted. "Near the border though, so I'll let you have that one."

"I don't need charity," Sherlock sniffed.

"Then you will not want to know the answer to the case you are working on?"

"You claim to know it?"

"Would I bring it up otherwise?"

"We're all doomed," John muttered, the other two ignored him.

"No, I don't want it."

"How about this?" Mr. Potter said. "I'll write it down, you can watch me do it, and you can read it when you've solved the case."

Sherlock seemed to debate with himself, finally his curiosity won out over his arrogance. "Fine."

"Do you have some paper and a pen?"

"John, get Potter something to write on."

"Sure," he answered, moving into the flat, "It's not like I'm around for anything but to hand you stuff anyway." He wasn't all that perturbed though, he was intrigued. It was equal fascination and terrifying to see Sherlock converse with someone who's mind seemed to work on the same wavelength.

He got back into the stairwell, handed Mr. Potter the notebook he'd grabbed and the fountain pen with black ink that he had picked up the last time he was at the bank.

"Thanks," Mr. Potter murmured and he used a wall to steady the book while he scribbled down a few lines. "There you go." He handed the book back to John. "It's been a pleasure meeting you two. By the way I'm a big fan of your blog, Dr. Watson. Mr. Holmes, I feel like I should bring up the solar system, but I shall refrain. Oh, and if you want people to stop thinking that you are partners in more then one sense, do stop wearing matching colours." With that the young man, who had made what had looked to be a normal, slightly boring Wednesday in November rather more exiting, went down the stairs and out through the door.

"I didn't know we were working on a case," John said as they moved back inside their apartment, he went over to the kitchen and put on water to make some tea for breakfast. He should have liked coffee but they were all out.

"I got a text from Lestrade a couple of hours ago."

"And how could Potter know about it?"

"Am I going to have to repeat myself again?"

"He's in Special Forces, okay, I got it," John said to get Sherlock of his back. "Not that it would matter for a normal person, but what do I know," he added under his breath.

"We're going out," Sherlock suddenly announced.

"What? Now? I haven't eaten anything yet, and I have to be at the clinic at nine."

"All the more reason to get going. Lestrade sent another text."

"Fine, but you are getting dressed before leaving, or so help me, Sherlock." He poured a cup of tea and froze with the rim at his lips. "We don't wear matching colours do we?" he added, with a frown, thinking back to what their new neighbour had said.

"Yes we do," Sherlock answered and scurried of into his bedroom.

John sighed. "This will be a long day."

 

_**:221 B Baker Street:** _

It was a few days later, Saturday to be more precise and Sherlock and John dragged themselves inside their flat, exhausted but satisfied as the case was done.

"I can't believe that it was the greengrocer who killed all those people. That's even more bizarre than a cabby."

"He did have the incentive. The victims were if not directly, causing problems for his suppliers, and in turn his and his family's livelihood. But you are correct that it didn't seem likely. He had no education; he had no direct connection with the murdered people. He used middle hands to deliver the poisons, and different ones each time, though just as deadly. Fairly brilliant."

"Is that a compliment?"

"I said fairly brilliant, not brilliant."

"Shall we have a look at what Potter wrote then? Do you think he got it right?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He swished through the room, took up the notebook, flicked to the right page. He eyed the page and dropped the book.

"What?" John asked.

"I'm going out."

"Where?"

"I'm going to wave at a camera."

"Okay," John muttered, too used to Sherlock acting strange to care anymore. "You know it would be easier to call your brother!"

"You can't flip off people by mobile!" Sherlock called back, already halfway down the stairs.

"Right. Never heard of video chat I suppose."

He walked over to where Sherlock had dropped the book and picked it up to read what Mr. Potter had written.

" _The Greengrocer._

" _Poisons._

" _Mr. Cuberth: belladonna, on the broccoli bought by his niece._

" _Ms. Rolands: wolfsbane, in the elderberry juice she is so fond of._

" _Mrs. Lloyd: _tetrodotoxin_ , in the herbal tea that her husband insists she drink for her varicose._

" _Mr Thomas: Hemlock, ingested with his toast of all things and finally:_

" _Mr. Irving: Arsenic (switching it up a bit) this got in his system through consuming water from bottle tapped in Norway._

" _I should need say no more. I'll be back Sunday, if you want to discuss the case or any other please come to dinner at seven pm. If you don't show up I'll take that as you failing to solve the case and I'll be most disappointed. Dr. Watson you are welcome to come too."_

The note wasn't signed, but there was no need to. They did know who wrote it, and Potter had gotten everything right.

"Well he's going to be insufferable now," John muttered in a resigned way. "I hope Potter serves good food."


	2. Chapter 2

It was growing closer and closer to seven pm on Sunday evening. John was idly watching Sherlock pace through the apartment at the same time as he finished his newest blog entry on the case they'd finished the day before.

"You don't have to go if you don't want to," he said.

Sherlock snapped his head up and gave John a look that spoke far more than words ever could to convey how utterly stupid he thought the suggestion was. "Of course I have to go," he said. "Potter phrased it so that me failing to attend this, hmm, dinner is evidence of my failure as a detective."

"And we can't have that."

"No."

"Why are you pacing then? If you've already decided to there is no point in making a fuss."

"There is eight minutes till we're supposed to be there, eighteen if we arrive acceptably late."

"Ten minutes is acceptable?" John asked perplexed.

"When living in the same building, yes, ten minutes would be acceptable and not require an explanation." John frowned, wondering if there was some form of etiquette he had missed completely or if Sherlock was making it up or if it was something that was part of culture and just so ingrained in their behaviour that people who weren't as observant as his flatmate failed to notice it.

"In that time there is a possibility that I will come up with a way that allows me to avoid dinner and still come out as the one in right," Sherlock continued.

"What?" John couldn't say that he had been able to follow the last statement. "Just admit that you are curious and that there is no way you'll pass up a chance to interrogate him to find out how he knew about the serial killer and the murders. You haven't been able to sit still all day."

"Fine!" Sherlock said shortly, not pleased at being called out. "But I don't want to eat!"

John let out a long suffered sigh; sometimes being around Sherlock was like being around a petulant child; a petulant child who with a few words could reduce you to the intelligence level of an earth worm. "You have no excuse for refusing food," he said patiently. "You're not on a case."

"Eating still slows down my thinking and I'll need to be at my best to figure Potter out," Sherlock insisted.

"Well, if you want to grasp this opportunity to speak with him you'll have to suffer through and eat."

A few minutes later John took a look at the computer screen seeing that it was now one minute past. "Come on, it's time to go."

"Yes, it is time," Sherlock surprisingly agreed, where John would have thought that he'd say that he had another nine minutes he could use to think up an excuse, and proceeded to lead the way out into the stairwell. John got up and followed him, walking past the landing that only held his own bedroom and continued up to the next floor.

A mouth-watering aroma had spread out into the hallway and though the open door to 221D. Sherlock went ahead and stepped right through while John hurried to knock on the open door to announce their arrival, though perhaps it was okay considering that Mr. Potter had left the door open for them.

They came into a large sitting room that was at once elegant and casual in furniture with two large, black , leather sofas and a couple of armchairs in red. One wall was lined with bookcases, filled to the brim with leather-bound books, some looking like they must be older than the building itself. Another wall had several large windows, jutting out, up through the slanted ceiling and giving the room more space.

"Good evening, gentlemen," Mr. Potter said coming out form a kitchen that was located to the right, opposite of where it was placed in their flat two floors below, he was dressed much the same as when they'd first met him, with the addition of an apron around his waist. "Dinner will be ready in a few. You can sit down in the dining room while you wait."

"You've got a dining room?" John couldn't help but ask, even as he knew Sherlock thought he was stupid for making such a redundant inquiry, Mr. Potter wouldn't have said that they should sit down in the dining room if the space didn't exist.

"Yes, and an office and a lab and two bedrooms," Mr. Potter answered easily, though John think he noticed a slight tensioning in his jaw. He had to remember that this man shared some trait with Sherlock, so far he only seemed better or at least more inclined to hiding it.

"Really?"

Mr. Potter smiled. "Come."

If Mr. Potter's apartment had been a mirror image of theirs the dining room would have been Sherlock's bedroom, if it was twice as large that is. John couldn't understand how it was possible. For all this space to fit the flat would have to stretch past the narrow part that belonged to their entrance, perhaps it did. Sherlock was looking everywhere, his gaze sweeping over each item, scrutinizing them. His sharp, slate coloured eyes missed nothing and he could probably tell everything there was to know about the new tenant as well as all the pervious ones.

"Do sit down and I'll be right back," Mr. Potter said cheerily.

"Thank you for having us," John said. "I feel like it should be us inviting you , welcoming you to the building, instead of the other way around."

Mr. Potter laughed a little. "It's no problem and I understand that cooking food in a kitchen used to store various body parts might not be the most appealing idea, besides I enjoy cooking, I find it relaxing after a busy day, tough I confess that takeout food has become part of my regular diet as of late. Now please sit down, I've left the food unattended for long enough."

Mr. Potter went back into the kitchen through a door connected to the dining room, leaving John and Sherlock alone.

"Seen anything interesting?" John asked as he sat won by one the three setting that had been prepared, feeling a bit on edge since Sherlock had been so quiet ever since they got there.

"A few things," Sherlock said in reply. "Most of the furniture belonged to Mr. Black and as in the case with the bookshelves they've been here much longer, as long as the building itself."

"Alright," John nodded. "Can you tell me how this apartment is so large? As far as I can tell it shouldn't be able to fit and how come you were able to keep quiet at the mentioned of a lab?"

Sherlock frowned in dismay. "I don't know," he half whined. "It is possible that the flat stretches over the adjacent buildings, yet that is not it. Did you notice that the view form the windows in this room are identical to the one you would find if you looked out the windows in the stairwell?"

John blinked.

"Of course you didn't," Sherlock muttered in a mildly chiding tone. "Well, I'm telling you that the view is exactly the same, something that shouldn't be possible, let alone desirable."

"So… strange windows?"

"And strange photographs."

"What about them?"

"They moved."

John shrugged. "Digital photo frame," he explained it away.

"No, the images didn't change," Sherlock continued irritated. "The people in the photographs were moving and when we entered the movement ceased as if they were trying to hide that they had been moving in the first place."

"Okay? Do you have a theory as to why?"

"A few, the next even more unfeasible than the fist, but all possible, I do not have enough data to narrow it down. Besides all that: Potter is not cooking."

"What?"

"He arrived here only about an hour ago."

"How do you know?"

"Before that it was completely quiet up here, but from that point forward there were sounds of movement, beginning with a crack."

"Okay. But the cooking?"

"Oh, he may enjoy it alright, but this meal is not prepared by him. Up until no less than ten minutes ago he was asleep."

John's look was apparently question enough because Sherlock continued.

"Sleep wrinkles. They would not remain if longer time had passed."

"So maybe he prepared something when he first got in and then went to sleep knowing that it could cook itself."

"No. Judging by the smell it is food that needs to be looked after. And there will additionally be home cooked desert. There isn't enough time."

Mr. Potter came back then, carrying one plate with roast beef, small roasted potatoes and steamed vegetables in each hand. "I'm sorry there's no starter," he said, "but there is dessert which I hope makes up for it,"

"That's fine," John hurried to reassure. "It looks delicious."

Mr. Potter smiled again, putting the dishes down. He hurried back into the kitchen bringing back a third plate for himself and a boat of gravy. He had removed the apron and went to sit down. "Since you are my guest I feel that it is no less than right that I ask you to call me Harry, I do not think that there will be need for us to stand on formality with each other." Here he turned away his gaze from John and looked intently at Sherlock.

Some strange kind of none verbal communication seemed to pass between them, and John stayed silent, observing with bated breath, feeling as if he was no longer witnessing two men seated by a table and instead seeing two dominant male lions deciding if they should try to coexist or fight out to determine who was the stronger.

It was a very queer sensation that only intensified as Sherlock smiled, saying. "Of course, Harry."

"Good, Sherlock," Harry replied, an answering smile on his lips. "Now if I may ask, will you be able to hold out through dinner or shall we get right down to it?"

"You knew the cause of death, the victims, except for Miss Yang, I expect because she died the day after you left for Switzerland and you knew who the murderer was."

"All of it stating the obvious. How did Miss Yang die?"

"Cyanide."

"Hydrogen Cyanide?"

"Yes."

"How did he put that in any food? It's a gas at room temperature."

"Think."

Harry's lips were moving silently as he went through different possibilities. "By going on what he used previously he had a preference for vegetables and liquids," he said after a short moment. "Hydrogen Cyanide is miscible in water which opens up a lot of possibilities, and I'm afraid that I do not know enough about Miss Yang to say what her preferences would be. Oh, John, do feel free to start in on the food, there is no need for you to wait on account of us."

John twitched at being adressed. He had all but forgotten about the food, having once more gotten fascinated and a bit intimidated by the conversation that was just starting between Harry and Sherlock. Having been called out on his starring he did begin to serve himself of the food, meanwhile Sherlock was looking pleased with himself.

"Ice cream," he said, folding his hands together, elbows on the table. "Miss Yang was poisoned by way of ice cream."

Harry nodded. "Not surprising. He did go out of his way to find different methods. Can you tell me how I knew about the others?"

"Mycroft," Sherlock said.

_**:221 B Baker Street:** _

_A few hours earlier_

Harry walked out from the alley way where the telephone both that still remained the visitor's entrance to the Ministry of Magic was and was none puzzled at seeing a sleek, black car being parked nearby. As he walked towards it one of the passenger doors was opened. He got in, barely paying any attention to the woman who was seated next to him, typing away on her phone. There was no need to talk. He already knew who he was going to see and any confirmation would simply be redundant.

About a ten-minute-drive later the car parked by a house and Harry got out after saying a quiet good bye to the woman in the car. He had been at this house before and so he knew where to go. The grand atmosphere of the building would have intimidated a man with less experience with the rich and powerful, but out of necessity Harry had learned to move in that sort of environment sometimes even managing to find it enjoyable.

He saw himself inside an office and without any ceremony he went to sit down by the desk opposite of the man who had requested his presence.

"Harry," Mycroft Holmes said.

"Why don't you just start berating me so that I can go on home, contrary to how it may appear I have had a long day and different supplements of energy, mundane or otherwise in origin, can only get you through so many days without sleep."

"I thought I made my position regarding your involvement with my brother clear."

"Quite, but life does tend to get so very boring."

"Weren't you pleased by the mission in Switzerland?"

"That we from the beginning knew that I'd be back today should be answer enough."

"Do you want Sherlock to learn about the Statute of Secrecy?"

"It will happen eventually. Have you hired a private obliviator to keep it form him?"

"So far that has not been necessary, though as you are planning to incorporate yourself into the life of the inhabitants of 221 Baker Street, I fear that will change."

"Perhaps finding out about magic will keep him from being bored and opposed to what you fear it might keep him out of trouble. At least certain kinds of trouble."

"If my options are magic of opiates I think I will take my chances with the later."

Harry huffed. "So what clued you in? I am certain that I made sure the surveillance was disabled for the entire time I was at Baker Street."

"You did, which was rather crude, though I admit sufficient. It was my dear brother himself who by going out to the nearest CCTV camera and making a crude gesture drew my attention."

Harry smirked. "He gave you the finger, did he?"

"Yes," Mycroft sniffed.

"So he accurately assumed that you would have made sure that any case information Sherlock receives is also given to me?"

"Yes, and he was less than pleased. Now I suggest that you abort the dinner plans for this evening."

"No."

"No?"

"No, I shall enjoy talking with him." Harry stood. "Good bye, Mr. Holmes." Next, without any regards for the other man in the room he apparated straight back into his own flat at Baker Street.

_**:221 B Baker Street:** _

"Your brother," Harry confirmed with a small nod, "though I am sure you realize that isn't the complete answer."

"Naturally. There was barely anything there to give it away, but someone had been at the crime scenes between the time of death and the first arrival of the inspectors from Scotland Yard."

"What gave it away?"

"Dust. People are always forgetting about the dust."

Harry sighed. "Incompetent."

"I agree. You received your information from them and with enough time that would have been enough. And time was in abundance. When I first was contacted about the murders three days had passed since they started."

"All very good, but isn't there always something missing?"

Sherlock scowled. "I don't know who these people are. I don't know what organization you are with. It doesn't fit."

"It wouldn't. Just give it some time. It will come to you."

John chewed the roast beef carefully, feeling that he was missing at least half of the conversation, but he was growing used to it.


	3. Chapter 3

After the Dinner at Harry's was over, and yes John was thinking of the event with a capital D, he felt more confused than ever. When talking to Sherlock Harry was aloof and impossible for John to follow as it seemed like they barely needed to utter anything verbally to communicate, it was like he imagined conversations between Sherlock and his brother might be if they actually agreed to meet up more often than when Sherlock was in deep trouble, but when facing him Harry behaved like a completely normal person. It was strange and more than a little bit unsettling that an individual could be so dual in their behaviour.

Anyhow once it was over Sherlock had clammed up, refusing to talk about their neighbour, spending a lot of time in his Mind Palace trying to figure the man out and days later he had still failed at that, causing him to be yet more aggravating than usual to deal with. Things were not made better by what he met when he came home from his afternoon at the clinic to find Sherlock running down the stairs from the forth floor and into their flat. He followed with caution and had no idea what to make of what he saw next.

His flatmate had stopped in front of the stove and was turning the knobs on and off, looking at them as if they had offended him in the gravest fashion.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" he asked, not nearly as afraid of the answer as he felt he ought to be.

"It happened again," Sherlock answered cryptically, still turning the hotplates on and off at random intervals, unable to tear his eyes away.

"What exactly happened again?"

"I was breaking into Potter's flat, trying to get to his  _lab,_ " Sherlock said the word with obvious scepticism, as if he did not believe that there actually was a lab two floors up, _"_ but every time I put my hand on the door handle I strongly feel as if I've left the stove on and that I have to go home and turn it off so as to not risk a fire starting. It is a compulsion I've so far been unable to resist and I don't know why I get it. It is completely illogical; I have not used the stove in weeks."

"Thanks, I know," John muttered. He remembered well the last experiment Sherlock had used the stove for, and it would be a cold day in Hell before the consultant detective actually tried to use it for cooking. "And it's not as if you would care about a fire hazard either."

"Exactly," was the reply.

And now John's mind caught up to what Sherlock had been saying in the first place. "Hold on a second. You have been breaking into our neighbour's apartment? Repeatedly? Why? No, never mind why. I know why. It's because you're an obsessive nut job who can't leave anything well enough alone. The true question is how you could think that it was a good idea to break into his flat and how are you expecting Potter to take it when he finds out. Because he  _will_  find out about it."

"Of course he will. There were obviously some sort of intruder alarm stopping my efforts of investigation, but he won't mind. This is a challenge. If anything he'll add to it once I get close enough to solving it." Sherlock had at last finished with turning the knobs on the stove, leaving it safely turned off. He swirled around and went over to the sofa where he flopped down, getting into his thinking pose, hands on his chest, fingers resting against his chin and eyes closed.

"So, this is all a game to you?"

"Not a game;  _a challenge_ , John. And before you say anything more; it is a worthy pursuit. Whatever it is that Potter is hiding it is big and I will find out what it is."

John shook his head. "Whatever makes you happy, I suppose," he muttered, "as long as no one gets hurt."

Sherlock ignored him. And he ignored the buzzing of his mobile which was lying on the table next to him when it started to ring a moment later.

"Are you just going to let that ring?" John asked.

"It's Mycroft," was the answer, which when coming from Sherlock was all the answer needed.

All the same John picked it up, not in time to answer, but he looked and saw that it had indeed been Sherlock's brother. And the man had called no less than seven times in the last three hours.

"Do you know how many times he's called?"

"Three," Sherlock answered immediately.

John smiled. Sometimes the man was completely oblivious. He could miss things going on around him as he was preoccupied with his thoughts. "Seven," he said.

"Oh." Sherlock opened his eyes and peered at John through the corner of his eye.

"Do you think it might be important?"

"No. If he it was he'd have tainted us with his presence, barging in here like he is wont to do. He is just keener than I thought to keep me from investigating Potter. That is good news."

"Good? What am I missing?"

The dark-haired male turned his head and gave a disapproving stare. "If Mycroft wants something kept secret from me it is for a good reason."

"And naturally that means that you have to ruin it for him."

"Ah, you do have the ability to use your brain after all; I was beginning to wonder if you had lost it."

John frowned unimpressed by the backwards compliment. "Thanks," he grumbled dryly.

 

 

_**:221 B Baker Street:** _

A few more days had passed and Sherlock was profoundly bored. He hadn't made any progress with finding out what was so special about Harry Potter. He hadn't been able to enter the fourth floor flat again, getting deterred by the front door as opposed to just the door to the lab, so he had settled for trying to work with the information he already had from looking around.

Potter was twenty-four years old, born in Wales, having grown up in Surry, had gone to School in Scotland, though it was a boarding school with children from all over the British Islands so he had not adopted much of a Scottish dialect and he had since then lived in London, though as of late he had been spending more and more time abroad.

His parents had died when he was young and his relatives that had taken care off him had not done so well, their treatment of him could be labelled as neglect as best. His inheritance kept from him until he turned of age.

His teen years had been tumultuous; he had seen violence and death and had not walked through it unscathed. He had a few close friends, was married to his job and devoted to his godson.

All of that was boring and easy to deduce from photographs, items scattered about in the flat, clothes in the wardrobe and so on, but after that information was hard to come by and information that made sense less so.

Moving photographs, compulsion on doors, food cooking faster than what should be possible, entering the flat without coming up the stairs and leaving just as inexplicably, the absence of any technology more modern then the first half of the twentieth century. The list went on, but Sherlock couldn't put his finger on a common denominator.

He had ruled out a cult or religious sect, though there were signs that pointed in that direction. He was beginning to feel a bit irritated, but not at all deterred yet. He just needed more data to figure it out. And an opportunity was just about to present itself.

An incoming text from DI Lestrade caught his attention and he had been hearing movement from the fourth floor and John was absent. A plan had taken form in his mind as the factors lined themselves up.

Getting up from the sofa he memorised the place where Lestrade said the crime that had the Yard stumped had happened and ventured up the stairs. He approached the door to Potter's flat cautiously as he did not want to spend the next few minutes by his stove again, but as he didn't reach for the handle the compulsion did not appear. Interesting. Triggered by intention. He knocked and waited, listening intently for any sound from inside as he did so.

He could hear a bit of movement; light thuds as Potter walked inside, a few softly spoken words, rustling of fabric, a few more thuds approaching and then Potter answered the door.

"Hello!" Sherlock said, not bothering to smile or adhere to any social convention, Potter already knew that he wasn't keen on that and it was unnecessary between them. Potter was dressed in gray chinos and had a blue button up shirt this day, a bit more formal than he had previously seen. His hair stood up at the back of his head, but that was nothing unusual. Sherlock looked him over trying to assess what he had been up to before he arrived, but the room behind the man was completely void of any traces of activity. Either he had been occupied in another room, unlikely the sounds had been close, or he had somehow been able to hide any signs of his presence in the short moment it had taken him to answer the door. Able to hide it well enough for Sherlock to be unable to see it.

"Yes?" Potter said.

"I have a case."

"Where?"

Sherlock liked him as much as he found him to be highly irritating. Not having to spell everything out was a welcome relief, but he didn't do well with rivalry, still it was he who was suggesting that Potter come along for the case, and he had several reasons for that. One, more material for him to figure out the mystery that was Harry Potter and two, to befuddle and annoy the people from Scotland Yard. For once he actually wanted Anderson to be present.

"Kensington Gardens, Princess Diana Memorial Fountain."

Potter nodded. "Let's go then."

 

 

_**:221 B Baker Street:** _

"The results of the blood work have come back, Mr. Kashani," John said as he was sitting in his room at the medical clinic where he worked. His phone buzzed in his pocket, but he ignored it. "The levels were heightened showing that you have an infection, so I will be prescribing penicillin. Take two pills each day and you should not stop the treatment even if you start feeling better. You will get five days of sick leave. Unless you aren't feeling at all better next Thursday you should be able to get back to work, the penicillin will stop the you from being contagious," John said all of this, looking down in his paper and at his computer screen as he prescribed the penicillin, wincing a bit in sympathy as Mr. Kashani coughed loudly, wheezing and nearly choking as phlegm moved down in his throat, it sounded rather painful.

"Have you been taking anything for your cough?"

"No, I haven't," the man responded and coughed again until his eyes watered.

"I think a cough medicine might be a good idea for you," John suggested. His phone buzzed again as another text was received, it was ignored once more. "I'll prescribe that as well, even though an OTC would suffice."

"Thank you, doctor."

They shook hands and the man left the room. One of the nurses stuck her head inside the door as soon as he was gone.

"Yes?" he said.

"We've begun closing down. There are no more patients in the waiting room and Victor is seeing the last one now, so you can feel free to go home."

"Great," he said with a smile. "Thanks, Suzie."

Feeling relieved that he wouldn't have to meet any more people with horrible colds today John fixed with the last things, writing up Mr. Jahan Kashani's medical records before turning off the computer and flicking off the lights.

It was first when he was already down on the street that he had a look at his mobile phone. There were two messages, both from Sherlock.  _Case. Princess Diana Memorial Fountain. Come here._ That was the first one.  _Come here now, John. The patients aren't important. They just have colds or strained ankles, nothing to be bothered with. The Case. Now._

John snorted. Typically Sherlock, no regard for people's smaller problems. Most days he didn't mind going along for the cases, he fond it thrilling, but he felt knackered, having actually been at the clinic the entire day as opposed to just through the morning or afternoon. Still he picked up his mobile and dialled Sherlock's number, thinking that he would indulge the man if it was important, but to decide if it was important or not he would have to talk with the man, not just get another text which as little information on the matter of importance as the first two.

The call was answered by the second ring. "Is this important, Sherlock, or are you just being your normal obnoxious self?" he asked scathingly.

"Hello, John," said a deadpan voice that did not belong to his flatmate. John drew in a gulp of air, his mind suddenly filling with the worst possible scenarios because when it came to Sherlock a stranger picking up answering his mobile couldn't be good. "Relax, John, I'm Harry," the man on the other end of the line continued and John did relax as he recognized their new neighbour's voice.

He took a few deep breaths.

"Alright now?" Harry asked gently.

"Yeah, 'm fine," John breathed out. "Sorry about that."

"You just imagined that I was someone else, someone out to get Sherlock, it's understandable that you would come to that conclusion. He is fine too by the way, just a bit preoccupied, so he asked me to answer."

"Yeah?"

"Is that John?" he vaguely heard a voice asking.

"Yes," said Harry.

"Can I speak to him for a moment?"

Without John having the chance to reply to that he could hear the mobile switching hands.

"Hello, Dr. Watson," said the voice of District Inspector Gregory Lestrade.

"Hi," John said back, wary mixing with amusement at the man's exhausted tone.

"I am not sure what to say, just… How do you do it? How do you manage to get in contact with two men like that?"

"Eh, pardon?"

"How do you manage to not only get involved with  _the Sherlock Holmes_ , but also with a ten year younger copy of him? And how is it that they are working together? Have you two found a way to replicate people or simply cultivated a way of attracting strange intellects to Baker Street?"

John hid a laugh with a strained cough. "How bad has it been?"

"Donovan left in a testy about five minutes after they arrived and Anderson looks ready to try out medieval torturing techniques on them."

"Do you want me to come over?"

"I'd be very grateful if you would. I'd accept any help at this point, but I reckon that at this speed the case I and my people have been working on for the last week will be solved before nightfall."

"Right. I'm on my way."


End file.
